by James Munro
Grierson knocked and came in, carrying a bottle of whisky.
"Compliments of Mr. Ashford," he said, and poured two drinks.
"Hurray for Mr. Ashford."
"He's worried. I'm worried. How about you?"
Craig said, "I wish I was back in St. Tropez. I'm too old for it, but I liked it." He sipped his drink and looked at Grierson. "When we've done, how do we get out of here?"
"We go to the airport if we can," said Grierson. "If not, we go to Cap Ferrat."
"That's where Turner's villa is."
"I know. We've got a boat standing by there. It'll take us to Italy."
"Nice trip," said Craig. "Do you think we'll ever take it?"
"You worry too much," said Grierson.
"Too much before lunch," said Craig. "I think I'd better get some sleep."
And, incredibly, he did sleep, while Grierson prowled the hotel, lunched in a little restaurant by the gardens, took the lift to the castle ruins and looked out, from the shelter of the pines, toward Cap Ferrat and the swarm of glittering white boats. So many; surely one more would not be noticed?
Craig woke at six, bathed, showered, changed, and joined Grierson in the hotel bar. He looked calm by then, completely relaxed. The two men ate in the hotel, then walked to the Albert I gardens, the palm trees glowing blue, purple, red, under the festoons of colored lights. In the open-air theater an orchestra was playing Strauss. There should have been a grand duke or two, thought Grierson, with a girl from Maxim's on each arm. On the Quai des fitats Unis, near the opera house, is the new Casino, another ghttering wedding cake in a garden of palm trees, carnations, and roses. The great bar near the gaming rooms was already filling up, and Craig stared in frank delight at its marble floor, its tiny fountain and great curving bar covered with slabs of teak. Ashford was already there, drinking a champagne cocktail. He wore a white dinner jacket and maroon cummerbund; his heavy silk shirt was pleated. Craig and Grierson were wearing dark suits of lightweight silk and Dacron; beside Ashford, they looked like crows.
"He's due back tonight," he said at once. "So far as I can find out, it won't be till very late. Probably the early morning. He'll be at the Association's offices all day tomorrow. There's a conference on. The place will be packed. I should think you'd do better at the villa."
Craig said, "How accurate is this information?"
"It's accurate."
"You're sure? Who did you get it from?"
Ashford looked mulish, and Craig said brutally, "Look, gorgeous, it's our necks. We can't afford any mistakes. Who told you?"
Slowly, reluctantly, Ashford said, "It was Bobby-Captain La Valere. Honestly, I feel an absolute bitch. I'll never be able to face him after this."
"You'd better," said Grierson. "If you want to see anybody."
"Oh God," said Ashford. "What a dirty business this is." He finished his drink, and got up from the bar stool.
"I'm going now," he said. "Bobby's expecting me. I hope I don't have to see either of you again."
He shook hands with Grierson and left. "He likes you?" said Craig.
Grierson shook his head. In his hand was a tiny slip of paper.
On it he read. "Pucelli disappeared. Fear returned Nice." Craig said, "We'd better get a move on."
CHAPTER 15
In the casino gardens, Ashford found Bobby waiting for him, as he'd promised. The poor boy looked terribly worried, but then he always did, particularly when St. Briac was in Nice. Ashford hated St. Briac. It really would be best to get Bobby away from him. Of course he could never tell Bobby what he'd done, but it would be nice to have him all to himself. He was making more than enough for both of them, churning out playsuits for those great cows.
Bobby's Citroen was waiting for them on the Pier. He had hardly spoken a word on the way to it, and he had a new chauffeur, a dark, squat man who drove off as soon as the car door slammed, heading toward Villefranche.
Ashford said, "My dear, I thought we were going to eat in that scrumptious place in the Promenade des Anglais." He was trembling, and when Bobby didn't answer, he trembled even more.
"Bobby, what's wrong?" he asked, and then, stupidly, "What have I done?"
The Citroen left the town behind, and in the darkness Bobby turned to him and hit him in the mouth with his fist, again and again. The car moved faster and the chauffeur, Pucelli, grinned. La Valere might be a queen, but he knew how to hit. Not that it would do him any good when the colonel got back. The colonel had no time for little friends, men or women. Things wouldn't look too good for La Valere when the colonel heard how he, Pucelli, had seen Ashford in the casino bar, talking to
Craig. Then Pucelli didn't grin any more. The bomb in Craig's car had been his responsibility, and Craig was still alive. He'd seen him, and he'd told La Valere.
Craig went back to the old town, through the Place Massena to the rue Desmoulins, and looked at the society's offices. They were of solid gray stone, the doors reinforced, the windows protected by steel grilles. As they stood, a gendarme appeared from a doorway lower down the street and moved toward them, and when they walked on, followed them until they went back to the Place Massena.
"Not a hope," said Grierson, "unless we can do something when he gets out of the car."
"There's the villa," said Craig. "Let's have a look at that."
They got out the Alfa, and drove along the Corniche toward Villefranche. Before Villefranche, they turned off, onto the quiet road on which St. Briac's villa stood, behind an eight-foot wall of granite setts. The whole place glowed with light, and Craig kept on going. Next to it, as Ashford had told him, was another villa, empty and in darkness. Craig drove past it and swung the car in to a narrow, rutted farm track that ran below its hedge of wildly soaring box. They climbed over the walls of the empty villa, and moved across its grounds. Pools stagnant, fountain dry. flowers growing wild and rank. The same high wall separated the two buudings, and an inch above the wall ran a wire.
"Electrified," said Grierson.
Craig nodded, and lobbed a dry twig on to the wall. There was a hiss, a crackle of sparks, a faint smell of woodsmoke. The two men moved silently back toward the empty house. It was padlocked at every window, every door, but Grierson broke in, using a picklock. They moved through the deserted house, past elegant furniture shrouded in gray dust sheets, up the staircase, higher, higher until fitted carpet and linoleum took its place. From a high, attic window they looked down into St. Briac's garden."
Batteries of fights hung from the trees showed it to them as bright as day. In all its expanse there was no protection; every approach could be covered from the house. At regular intervals a man with an automatic carbine walked through. With him were three Alsatians.
Grierson said, "You'd never get near."
Craig peered out again.
"We could try it from here if we can get hold of a rifle," he said.
Grierson shook his head.
"When St. Briac's here, they patrol this place too." he said.
They went to the other end of the house. Another attic window showed them St. Briac's sheds, garages, outhouses. One of them in particular looked interesting. A little wooden building that housed a generator.
"You'd have to find him in the dark," said Grierson.
"I mightn't have to," said Craig. "I could be with him already."
He began to talk, and Grierson listened, reluctantly at first, then with more eagerness.
"It's the only move we've got left," Craig said. "Either that or a V-bomber."
"You won't have a chance."
"Oh yes," Craig said. "I'll have one chance. I always do. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be doing it."
"What about a gun? They're bound to search you.rt
"I'll take two. Maybe they'll only find one. If not-" He looked at his hands; strong hands, carefully tended, the hands of a craftsman.
"When?" asked Grierson.
"Tomorrow night. Nine o'clock. The moon rises at ten. We ought to be in Cap Ferrat
by then-if we're not on a plane."
As they watched, memorizing the layout of the house, they heard a high-pitched scream, a man's scream, that was choked off into silence.
"We ought to make it sooner," Grierson said.
Craig said, "We ought to, but we can't."
They drove back to the hotel, and Craig wrote a letter to Tessa, then another to Loomis, asking him to take care of her. He had already arranged to leave her all his gun-running money, if anything went wrong, but he wanted to be sure she lived to spend it. He wanted guarantees, where no guarantee was possible. As he wrote, Grierson tried to telephone Ashford. He would need tools, insulated stuff; and then there were the cars. The Alfa was all right, but the Mercedes was far too big. Each time he called the number, there was no answer. Grierson wasn't worried yet. It wasn't midnight, and Ashford had been going out. By one o'clock he began to worry. At two, he went in and woke Craig. He remembered the choked-off scream, so shrill and yet so obviously male. Craig agreed that it might be Ashford.
"You'd better get busy with that picklock of yours," he said. "I think we should move in next door."
The room across the hall was empty, and Grierson broke in, swift and silent, and the two men took turns resting and watching. At half past three, in the utter silence before dawn, they heard the elevator go past their floor, then the soft slither of feet coming downstairs, walking along a deep-piled carpet, stopping outside Craig's room. From the tiny gap of the door opposite, they watched as two men stood poised, one of them fumbling with a passkey. Grierson opened the door, the Colt in his hand, and Craig moved out from behind him like a cat.
"Don't move," said Grierson.
The man with the passkey started to turn, and Craig hit him once, catching him before he fell. The other man froze as Craig took his gun from him, then turned and leaped. Craig felt hands clawing for his throat, and struck at the other man's stomach, winding him, then grabbed his arm, spun him around, holding him in a hammer-lock until Grierson had dragged the unconscious man inside. Craig pushed him in, and looked at him. Tall, elegant, yellow hair close-cropped, a magnificent suntan.
"You must be Bobby," he said, and searched him for more weapons as Grierson searched the unconscious man. The elegant one groaned, as air forced itself back into his lungs.
"Captain La Valere?" Grierson asked.
"Tell us," said Craig, very softly, "or I'll make you."
"I'm La Valere," said the elegant one.
"You have Ashford, haven't you?" Craig asked. La Valere was silent.
"You must have," said Grierson. "He's the only one who could have told you we were here."
"What were you going to do?" asked Craig. "Kill me?"
"You've already been sentenced," La Valere said. "Whatever you do now, you will not survive for very long."
"I might take a bit of company with me," Craig said. La Valere shrugged.
"I don't matter now," he said. "That little swine-" He swayed a little, put his hand on the table. "I was very fond of Ricky Ashford," he said. "I loved him. I still do. That's stupid, isn't it? I know exactly what he has done to me, and yet I love him. Even though I know why he brought you here."
"Do you now?" said Craig.
"To get evidence against the society. To betray us to our own government. Ricky told me everything. I hate you for that. I never wanted to hurt Ricky. Never."
The unconscious man stirred and groaned, and La Valere was silent.
"All right," said Craig. "So I used Ricky, and you had to hurt him. That's too bad."
'TOM used him? He told me it was this man."
"I used Grierson too," said Craig. "He works for me. He hired Ricky Ashford, so Ashford works for me as well."
La Valere looked at Grierson.
"You must be very stupid," he said. "To work so hard for death."
"He's been paid," said Craig, "and he isn't dead yet. I want to make a deal, Captain."
"The colonel won't bargain with you."
"All the arms dealers I know. Everything I know about them. Don't you think he might make a deal for that?"
La Valere hesitated.
"What would you want in exchange?" he asked. "Just to be left alone. To keep what I have. And the same for Grierson." "And for Ricky?"
"For him, too. Of course."
"I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do," said La Valere.
Craig said, "Tell him I'll meet him anywhere-at his office if you like-"
"No," said La Valere, "that is rather too public. We will find a place to meet."
"Just as you like," said Craig. "I want to get this thing over with."
He bent then, and hauled the unconscious man to his feet. A stocky man, muscle running to fat, and a face that looked self-indulgent and cruel. The face of Duclos. Craig slapped him into consciousness and he left with La Valere. He'd wanted to say and do all sorts of things to Craig, but La Valere had barked an order and Duclos had left. The Society for the Solution of the Algerian Problem believed in discipline, that was obvious, and in the hierarchical principle. Duclos had far more brains than La Valere. It would have been better if La Valere had been a little brighter, just bright enough for St. Briac to listen to his suggestions.
It was impossible to walk in on St. Briac unannounced, there were no bufidings near his office where a man with a rifle might hide, and even if there had been, St. Briac was always in the middle of a group; a bomb was too dangerous, too mcfiscrirninate. Over and over again Craig and Grierson argued the possibilities.
"It's got to be the first time," said Grierson. "If he's on his guard, the odds are too big."
"Then I'll go to see him."
"I'll cover you as much as I can," said Grierson, "but it won't be easy to get you out." Craig shrugged.
"My job is to see that he dies. After that, we'll take what comes."
Grierson wanted to argue, but the phone rang. Craig picked it up.
"This is St. Briac," said the voice on the telephone. "I understand you wish to see me?" "I do," said Craig.
"Come and see me then," said St. Briac. "Will you walk into my parlor," Craig said. "I give you my word as a gentleman that you will not be hurt," said the voice. "I never break my word." "You like my offer then?"
"It sounds attractive. I will make no promises about your ultimate safety until we have talked. You understand that?"
"That suits me," Craig said.
"And my safe conduct? You will accept that too?" "Yes," said Craig. "You do everything else, but you don't he."
"Very well. I have given you my word. Tonight at eight o'clock. At my villa. Bring Grierson with you." "Do you want him?"
"No," said the voice. "I don't want him, or that other young man, the pretty one. But you will bring Grierson with you. I don't trust you, Craig. I will send a car for you both at seven-thirty."
"I've got my own car," Craig said.
"So I hear. An Italian machine, and very expensive. Mine is French, and much more trustworthy. You will ride in mine."
He hung up, and Craig turned to face Grierson.
"Now we'll have to do it my way," he said.
Grierson said, "I don't understand you. You seem almost happy about this."
"It's time we did something," Craig said. "I don't like hanging about. It makes me nervous."
That afternoon Craig and Grierson took the Mercedes and the Alfa Romeo out to the deserted villa. Craig watched while Grierson walked through the garden, pushed the Alfa inside, and hid it behind a hedge that blotted it out from view. They drove back to Nice in the Mercedes, certain that they had not been followed, yet with their nerves eroded by the tension of waiting.
"Suppose they find the Alfa?" Grierson asked.
"Then we're sunk," said Craig. "But you saw how that guard went through the garden. He's done it so many times that he knows there's nothing there, so he doesn't bother to look any more. I don't think they'll find it. What are you going to do with the Mercedes?"
"It'll be picked
up," said Grierson, and Craig asked no more.
After that, they waited in Craig's room until the phone rang. Craig picked it up, listened for a second, nodded to Grierson, then put the receiver down, very slowly. The car was waiting. For the last time he checked the Woodsman, then put it in the soft leather holster under his arm. He checked the Luger, and put it in his trouser pocket. At the foot of the hotel steps, a black Citroen waited. Pucelli held open the rear door, and Duclos sat in the far corner seat, a light raincoat over his arm. He smiled very pleasantiy until the doorman had gone, then he said, "There is a gun under my coat. Get in-and no trouble."
They obeyed, and the door slammed behind them. "There's no need for this," Craig said. "We haven't forgotten Cadella," Duclos said. "Cadella tried to kill me."
"No more talk. And put your hands on your knees, both of you."
Craig shrugged and obeyed, waiting for Duclos to search him, but Duclos was far too well trained for that. The time for searching would come later, when he had help. The big car swept on toward the villa. There a guard waited, covering them both with an automatic carbine. They walked through the garden to the house, through what had once been an elegant hallway and now, though it was cleaned and polished every day, looked like part of a barracks. The room beyond it, where St. Briac waited for them, looked like a battalion H.Q. Their guard was still with them, his carbine covering them both. Very impartial, their guard. Craig thought that the opportunity was as good as it would ever be. He could take out the gun, shoot the man with the carbine, and then St. Briac. There was a fair chance that he would then be killed. Grierson certainly would be. He thought that if he were a Japanese, things would be a lot easier. Kamikaze solved everybody's problems, including your own. Then he thought of Tessa, and wondered if she was safe in Haka-gawa's house.
He said, "I don't know what all the fuss is about. I asked to come here."
St. Briac asked, "Have you got a gun?"
Craig nodded. "Here," he said, and his hand moved inside his coat.
The carbine swung toward him, and Craig stood still while Duclos searched him, took out the Woodsman, and laid it in front of his master; slowly, thoroughly, obscenely searched him again and produced the Luger, then repeated the process with Grierson.